Vassal
by Vacancy
Summary: Nasuada knows that her days as merely a woman are numbered, and the countdown is not kind to her. She calls Eragon on her last night of freedom, hoping to live before she becomes nothing but the figurehead of the Varden.


A/N: **I personally, like it...I was going to write the lemon but then I ... didn't. So the ending is kind of lame...maybe I'll publish it later as an edited version, but I don't feel like writing sex. **

**First Eragon fic! W00! Give me your throughts and feeeeeeelings.**

Disclaimer: Do I have to spell it out? Not CP (in the hizzle)

_Vassal_

Nasuada stared at the fire, the flickering flames failing to entrance her as they usually did. Too much was upon her mind. The expressions of the council when she accepted their offer to succeed her noble father, Ajihad, the horror of his death when she had been expecting the fire of his rage for her fighting to defend her home, the bloody glimmer of Eragon's red sword as he placed the hilt in her hands, pledging fealty to her.

It was too late at night to be thinking of these things. She rose from her chair with a heavy sigh, placing her cup of tea on the table next to it. After being kept busy all day since her acceptance, private affairs of preparation for a public instatement, and the dead weight of the stares of the people, weariness leaded her bones. Not the exhilirated exhaustion of battle, but a bare, ungilded semblance of being wiped clean. She had no more emotion to deal out.

But—

Her eyes found the fire once more, a beacon in the twilight of her chamber, and connections were made without her even having to think of them—fire, dragon, Rider, Eragon. She felt that she needed to speak with him, though for reasons she couldn't place. She had squared away matters of his fealty, what he would do for her and ultimately the Varden—what else could she possibly require of him?

Visions of his cut face, clear of any of the naivete that she still beared, flickered into her mind, and a rise of some feeling she couldn't describe swirled in her belly.

She understood why she wanted to speak with him. It was nonsensical, and she didn't know exactly what she would say to him if and when he arrived, but she licked her dry lips and called out, loud enough for the attendants who were forever tucked into the corners of her room to hear—

"Send for Eragon."

**-x-**

_Sleep well, little one._

_ I love you, Saphira._

He could feel her conciousness soften even further, the tenderness of a mother towards her child. More prideful parts of him backed away from the tender emotion, but the boy in him who had gone forever without a mother crawled toward her. As it was, he remained still, curled on his bed.

_ You are my world. My Eragon._

_ Her_ Eragon. Hers.

"Shadeslayer!"

He threw aside the covers and was on his feet in an instant, hand grabbing for Zar'roc. After the travails of the morning and afternoon, he was only too wary.

The attendant swallowed nervously at the appearance of the bloodred sword, his Adams Apple bobbing uneasily.

"It—it is Lady Nasuada, Shadeslayer," he hurried to add the honorific word, as if he feared he would lose his life if he angered Eragon. "She—she sends for you."

"On what terms?" he asked, letting his sword down. The attendant let out a releived breath and continued with more confidence.

"Nothing urgent, but she would not speak of what she calls you for."

"I will come. A moment, please."

The attendant excused himself.

_I shall always have to answer her calls_, Eragon thought with surprise. _I am her vassal. Better hers than the counsels'; but hers none the less. _

Saphira stirred groggily as he pulled on his tunic and boots, and her alarm was vague with sleepiness. He comforted her quickly with an image of Nasuada, and she exhaled a puff of smoke.

_At this time of night?_

_I will be back quickly,_ he assured her. _Worry not._

_I do worry, little one_. Her bright eyes, misted slightly with bleariness, were full of concern as she regarded him._Nothing these days goes without striking a chord of worry in my heart._

He reassured her with a few more words, but she stubbornly refused to succumb to sleep once more until he returned.

He followed the attendant through halls, up staircases, through streets, Tronjheim steeped in the silence of night. When he reached the doors to Nasuada's chambers, the attendant bowed and withdrew himself. With trepadation, he knocked solidly upon the door.

"Enter, Shadeslayer."

He pushed the door open, blinking in the sudden darkness of the chambers compared to the orange-red illumination of the halls.

"Eragon," he told her, trying to convey respect even in correction. "My name is Eragon."

Nasuada smiled at him from where she sat by the fire. She indicated the chair next to her.

"You correct none but me," she said, seemingly amused by this. "Is this some rejection of me that I must seek to repair?"

"Never," Eragon said, moving towards the chair. He hated this subtle swordfight of words that the elves and dwarves so seemed to enjoy, a game where one wrong step, one wrong reference, is fatal to the player that spoke it. Battle was simple, instinct and training taking over thought. Magic, though it seemed to be complicated, was similarly easy, you just had to know the words. Conversation, however, was a battle of wits, and he was too weary for it. "Since I am indeed your vassal, I should want to have you know my name."

Something in Nasuada's dark eyes sparkled almost dangerously, and he frowned.

"What was it that Brom said?" she asked after a moment of silence. "You cannot correct all the idiots of the world, I think? Do you not like the title Shadeslayer?"

"I slew no Shade," Eragon said, an edge in his voice. "Not on my own, at least. I would surely have died without the aid of others."

". . . indeed," Nasuada concurred after another silence, and poured him a cup of tea.

"What brings you to summon me at so late an hour, Nasuada?" He was uncomfortable with simply speaking her name, but the words like 'Queen' and 'Most High' felt like insults to her on his tongue.

She ignored his question seemingly completely, stating instead;

"They instate me, tomorrow, Eragon."

"They do," he said, unsure of what to do with this. "Does it trouble you?"

"Not unduly," she said, sipping her tea and observing him with her dark, predators gaze. "I will uphold my fathers' honor and glorious rain and try my hardest to keep chaos and violence from the Varden, and ultimately gather enough forces to topple Galbatorix, or at least cripple him enough that someone else can."

He stayed mute, watching her. He had not answered his question, and did not seem to plan to as they stared at each other for a few long moments before she turned her head away, biting her dry lip.

"My fathers life was stolen from him."

"My condolences—"

"No, no," she said, waving that away. "That was not it. My father was a servant to the Varden. His life was for them, and though they loved him for it, nothing could bring it back once lost. He had no friends, only allies. He had no love, only adoration for his people. I find great joy in being selected to uphold my fathers' legacy of greatness, but a rulers' existence is their people." She closed her eyes. "That, for me, begins tomorrow."

"Ah," he said, understanding. "You seek my aid."

"I beg it," she said, and her words were heavy but clipped, and they fell into the thick silence but for their conversation like pebbles into quicksand.

"I am unsure how to give it," he said, frowning. "What could I help you with?"

"Be my company this night, Eragon," she said, her voice not pleading, but supplicating. "It is the last I shall spend in peace for a very long time."

"Would you not have a lady stay with you?" he asked, perplexed but flattered.

Nasuada laughed bitterly.

"Ladies my age see me as a thing to admire. The time I spend with them is made of questions and of awe. And I seek not the maternal feelings of one of my nurses, but that of a friend. I have none, Eragon."

"You should be able to call me friend," he said, suddenly wishing it to be true.

She turned back to him. She touched his cheek lightly, almost hesitantly, smiling ironically.

"My vassal."

"My lady."

The title he used for her seemed to please her, her smile grew. For a second she merely looked at him. But then she jolted back to herself, disallowign herself this one small happiness, and she withdrew her hand.

"I am so young, Eragon."

"If it is any consolation, you do not seem it."

"It is not."

The harshness with which she spoke the last words took him aback, and he merely blinked at her, though he did not let his confusion show on his face.

"I can protect my people and my home, but I do not think I can protect myself.You are but my age, Eragon, maybe older. What would you do in this situation?"

"Nothing," he said. "I'm hopeless at polotics."

Her laugh was startled out of her throat, low and startlingly erotic. He turned his head away, uneager for her to see his flush. Saphira, who had been listening intently to his thoughts for any kind of trouble, let out a low growl of derisive laughter.

"Eragon?" Nasuada murmured, and her voice was concerned.

He realized, suddenly, as she spoke the word without regret or stiffness, what his inexplicable fondness for her stemmed from. Her voice, when she said his name, was exactly like Saphira's.

_ That girl sounds nothing like me!_

_ I thought you liked her._

_ I did._

_ Jealous again_? He queried, remembering how she had felt about Arya. Saphira withdrew without answering, seemingly wounded.

"Are you all right? Does your head pain you?"

"My . . .? Oh, ah, no. Were there wounds on it?"

"There were wounds everywhere," Nasuada said wryly. "You were a collection of bruises."

An image of Arya flashed into his mind. Arya! Beautiful Arya, who he longed for, though he would not speak it. What was he doing, finding Nasuada, who was seeking only companionship, so alluring? Though he had promised nothing to her nor she him, he felt bound to her.

"No, my head is fine."

"I didn't seek to trouble you with my worries," Nasuada said. "I apologize. I would propose we move to lighter topics, but there seem to be none."

"Your worries are my worries, Nasuada," Eragon said with an almost pious tone. "As they are of every member of the Varden."

Her expression did not soften, nor did it harden. Her face was inscrutable as she stared into the fire.

"You ask why I summon you."

"I do," he said. "But you have told me."  
"I have not."

"Haven't you?"

"No." She paused, seemed to garner stregnth from the interest in his eyes. "I find you appealing, Eragon." His face was tinged with pink at her blunt tone, but she continued. "My life ends for me tomorrow. I should like to tell you, though it is hopeless. I shall probably marry some smelly old dwarf, perhaps a stuffy elf," a taint of bitterness creeped into her voice. "To cement an alliance. But I thought that I should tell you."

Silence.

The crackling flames illuminated Eragons' dumbfounded expression, and Nasuada's blank one as they stared symmetrically into the fire.

"I . . . I am not sure how I should respond."

"You shouldn't be. Your heart should govern such matters, not your mind."

His laugh was bitter.

"My heart is lost to my uncle and my mother and Brom, and all those who have died, in some way, for me."

Her eyes were throbbing with emotion when met his again.

"Then it shall one day be the same for me, as well. I can hardly wait until my heart is blackened and dies."

"It is a certain comfort," he agreed. Only one portion of his heart still throbbed, for Saphira and the people he had to protect.

"I have a time before it shall, though." Her hand found his cheek once more, and she found it pleasingly soft. She had been expecting the toughened flesh of one steeped in hardship. His eyes were inscrutable when he spoke.

"Is that your intention, then, Nasuada? A last huzzah before it perishes."

Her smile was feral.

"Exactly."

When he looked back, he couldn't believe he had complied. Nasuada was obviously not in her right mind, and what he had done would condemn even the most powerful Rider.

But somehow, Nasuada never looked at him like that ever again. Or anyone, for that matter, until the day she died.


End file.
